Read through my thoughts as I write them while I stare blank at the mirror humans call Life.

Choices

When people ask me to define love, I say, "Love is like handing someone a gun, having them point it at your heart, and trusting them to never pull the trigger." (Sponge Bob)

When they ask me why I laugh at my mistakes and even write them with pride in my blogs, I say, "I'm not crazy. I just don't give a damn!" (Daffy Duck)

When one time I was conducting a group activity, a student asked what road sign I love the most, I said, "I like dead end signs. I think they're kind. They at least have the decency to let you know you're going nowhere…" (Bugs Bunny)

And when for the nth time a friend would ask me what do I get from writing, I'm not even sure if there are good old souls out there visiting my site, I just smile and say, "Kung gusto mong maging manunulat, eh di magsulat ka. Simple." (Bob Ong)

And last night when Eva said she wants to quit from her work because nobody believes in her, her boss got mad at her, she doesn't even have friends at her agency, and she's crying like hell, I said, "Either you stay to prove your worth or you quit and just show them you're a loser, you have to strive for your happiness." (MY original)

My CHOICES: I remained believing in love. I continued spicing up my mistakes and rewriting my life, accepting failure but keep on dreaming until words would fade into thin air.

Oct 18, 2007

The Greek writer Nikos Kazantzakis tells how, as a child, he found a cocoon attached to a tree and saw that the butterfly inside the cocoon was just preparing to emerge. He waited for some time, but because the process seemed so long drawn out, he decided to speed things up. He began to warm the cocoon with his breath. However, when the butterfly did finally emerge, its wings were still stuck together, and it died a short time afterwards.

‘What it required was patient ripening by the sun, and I could not wait,’ says Kazantzakis. ‘Even now, that small corpse is one of the greatest weights I have on my conscience. But it taught me what is truly a mortal sin: to force the great laws of the universe. We must be patient and wait for the right moment and gladly follow the rhythm God has chosen for our life.’

Life is a rhythm. Everything in life is rhythmically designed. Everything in you and me.

The beat of our heart. The breathing in and out of our lungs. The palpitation of our pulse. The workings of our organs to achieve homeostasis. The sweating off from glands. The grumbling of our stomach when it is hungry. The movement of our body as it strides to its destination. The opening and closing of our eyes. The strands of hair on our scalp. The bones connected by hinges within us. The fibers of every muscle that cling to our bones. The nails artistically situated in every finger and toe. The sexual harmony shared by man and woman. The sound of voice. Laughter. Steps. Claps. Chants. Songs. Speech. The occurence of meiosis and mitosis, dividing simple cells to a splendid life with body and soul. You. Me.

Life is a rhythm. Everything in life is rhythmically designed. Everything in nature.

The swaying of the grass. The opening of a bud. The falling of dried leaves from its branches and the shooting of a new one off the same location. The germination of a seed. The rustling of the same dried leaves all piled up together blown by the wind. The wind whispers its own rhythm. The clit-clattering of raindrops on the ground. The splash of play. The dance of fire. The soundless clamor of the soil. The pebbles rolling down a cliff or as carried by the river. The ripples it creates when thrown to the sea by a lonely soul. The sound of animals. The chatting of the insects and all that crawl upon the earth. The chirping of the birds and all that travails the sky. The twinkling of the stars. The movement of planets. The revolution of each. The appearance of the moon. The heat of the sun. The occurence of eclipse. And all within the cosmos.

Everything. If I forgot to mention some things, please remind me.

But all the beauty of this rhythm depends upon man's virtue -- PATIENCE